Skin and Bones
by redbreastedrobin
Summary: Blair Bolton is eager to escape the Dreadfort, as well as her so called 'kin.' That escape takes the form of a marriage with the young Robb Stark of Winterfell. Will she escape her father's manipulation, or can you never truly escape the influence of a Bolton? A collaboration between cdog0803 and Lolastark.


**Skin and Bones  
**

**Chapter 1**

**By LolaStark and Cdog0803**

This is a collaboration piece between LolaStark and Cdog0803. The links to our respective accounts is on the joint account profile. Unfortunately, we won't be updating as often as we'd like, due to the nature of our schedules. If you're reading this, thanks for taking the time out of your day. Please let us know what you think.

Disclaimer: We do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters.

Chapter 1

Blair sat, leaned back in her seat, twisting her hands in her lap as the carriage went over yet another rock in the road. It was just another addition to her discomfort on this journey. It was only two days ride to her destination from her home, but it was two days too many that she sat staring out the window at the repetitive scenery that surrounded her.

She bit her cheek again. She might have winced if she weren't so used to the dull pain of the sores on the inside of mouth. If she'd ignore them, they would likely heal on their own, but her anxiousness would not let her cease the habit and once again she found herself biting into the flesh of her cheek absently as she stared out the window at the moors.

The fog was heavy so that she could barely see the landscape past what was in front of her. Even if she could see, she could hardly concentrate on it anyways. The road was rugged, full of rocks and bumps that she found most uncomfortable. As the carriage rode over another hill she shut her eyes and her fingers grasped tightly around the handle near the door. She had never been fond of riding in the carriage, having only done it one other time in her life. There was something unsettling about the whole thing. She much preferred to be atop a horse, free from the jerking of what seemed like an unsturdy contraption.

The carriage stopped suddenly then, as if understanding her disdain for the whole ordeal, and Blair had to throw her hand out to stop herself from falling over. Infernal machine, she thought. The door slid open, and the commander of her father's guard stuck his balding head in, his helmet tucked under his arm, next to the red flayed man surcoat he wore over his armor. Lord Bolton was very generous to send him. The way she heard it said, he was her father's favorite soldier. He did exactly as he was told, without hesitation. Whether he was told to kill a man or a child.

That was the rumor. Nobody knew for certain. After all, what kind of man would have his soldier kill a child, she thought bitterly

"Lady Bolton," the man gruffly, bowing his head for a moment. "We've reached the White Knife." Behind him, Blair could see, was a slow moving river, massive compared to the sad little stream they crossed after they left the Dreadfort. "We will be crossing in a few moments," he continued. "After that, we likely won't stop until we reach Winterfell. If you wanted a chance to stretch, perhaps you better do it now."

He was about as well trained in courtly courtesies as one of Ramsay's hounds, but he got the point across well enough. Without speaking, Blair stepped past him, out of the carriage and it's damnable creaking wheels.

Along the path they were travelling on was a small bridge crossing the river, lonely and covered with moss. The fog settled over the bridge, obscuring the other side of the shore, but she could still see the aging stonework. It was old, the mortar between each stone eroding away with the passage of time. It was likely built long before the Boltons swore fealty to the Starks, before the Dreadfort was a part of the North. That was when defense was better than travel, and though the watch towers and gates had been taken down, the bridge was made with battle in mind.

She strained her eyes as she gazed off into the distance. She thought, perhaps, that she had imagined the fog lifting momentarily as it passed by and revealed a large stone keep in the distance. Just as soon as she thought she had seen it, however, the great castle seemed to disappear once again beneath the dismal shroud of fog, as if it were never there to begin with.  
"Is that it?" she whispered, glancing up into the gray emptiness, her eyebrows creased.  
"What's that you said?" he mumbled, glancing down at her without meeting her eyes. He never looked her in the eye. He only ever gave her an uneasy glance, that is if he even bothered to look at her at all. She nearly attempted to explain what she'd seen, asked if it was Winterfell that had given her such a fleeting look of it's outer walls. But she soon thought better of it and cast her eyes towards the ground.

"Nothing," was her quiet reply as she lifted her skirts and helped herself back into the carriage.

She was engulfed in silence for only a moment more before carriage shifted and she heard the loud crack of the whip and the familiar clattering of the rocks beneath the wagon wheel.

Soon the sound of the horses' hooves clattering against the loose stones, could be heard and she could just make out the water through her window.

The water passed under the bridge as she passed over it, and for a moment she could have pretended she was on a boat along the river, if she could have ignored the incessant rattling of the carriage along the stones that would have been absent on a boat. Then it was over, and she was on the other side of the river, with one less obstacle between her and Winterfell.

Outside the carriage, a scarecrow looked on, its arms pointed outwards like a travel post, its leather like skin and its wooden frame like bone.

* * *

"Would you stop pacing?" Jon asked, and Robb jerked his head to the side. Jon was lying on his side, one of the large tomes from the library in his hands, the one he had been reading on his bed before Robb walked in. He was grinning, enjoying moments like these, moments when young heir of Winterfell wasn't the cool and calm ruler their father raised him to be. "You're only going to frighten her, you know."

Robb almost snapped at him, said something hurtful he'd regret later, but he thought better of it at the last moment. "Do you have a better idea of how I ought to pass the time waiting to see my betrothed for the first time?" he hissed.

"She's probably just as nervous as you are," Jon said, sitting up and setting the book atop the furs. "No reason to spend all this time getting worked up about nothing."

"Do Boltons get nervous?" he asked, smiling weakly. "I thought they didn't have feelings."

"You are probably right. They do live in the Dreadfort, after all," Jon added. "I hear the women bathe their skin in the blood of maidens to preserve their youth."

Robb chuckled half-heartedly and sat down next to his brother. "And that the men kill each other for sport."

"Old Nan told me they feast on the flesh of Starks."

Robb laughed nervously. "I hope she's hungry."

Jon cracked a smile. "That's the spirit. I'm sure she's wonderful."

Robb stood again, and started pacing again. "But you don't know. For all we know she's a hag. What if she is just as vile as all of Old Nan's stories say?"

"Father met her before, and there was nothing wrong with her then. Of course, I've never heard of a Bolton woman who wasn't a hag."

"You aren't helping."  
"You saw her, too," Jon reminded him.

"That was a long time ago. I barely remember anything about her. Except perhaps her eyes." He looked over at Jon, who had his eyebrows raised. "I swear they were white as milk," he explained.

Jon leaned forward, his eyes wide with mock interest. "Was she a White Walker?" he asked, barely holding back a smile. "Maybe she was a snark, or a grumpkin in human form."

Robb rolled his eyes. "I'm being serious."

"So am I! They're just eyes! Stop worrying."

"And what if she's ugly?"

Jon sighed "She's not ugly, Robb."

"But what if she is?"

"Then when she gives birth to your first child, she'll be beautiful to you." Jon stood up and put a hand on his brother's shoulder. "And don't let Lord Bolton hear you call his daughter ugly. He might flay you alive after you've started a civil war with just a few words."

Robb swallowed. "Is he coming with her?"

Jon shrugged. "I don't see why he wouldn't. It is his daughter's wedding, after all." He grinned. "Afraid of him as well?"

"Absolutely. If you had seen him, you'd know why. His eyes may be darker than his daughter's, but they're much colder," Robb said distractedly, recalling the hardened stare of the older man the day he'd met him so many years prior. A chill ran down his spine. "Father says this marriage will quell any chance of a Bolton uprising." He then looked at Jon. "But I can't imagine there is anything worse than marrying a Bolton."

"Having Lord Bolton for a father-in-law, perhaps?" Jon suggested and Robb couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or grimace at the thought. "Shall we go?" Jon asked, pulling on his boots. "I imagine she'll be here before long and your mother will want you there to meet your bride when she rides through the gates."

Robb took a deep, shaky breath. His heart was beating mercilessly, with no signs of slowing down. Perhaps she would not be as ugly as Theon had previously suggested. It was Theon, after all, who enjoyed putting such thoughts into his head. He could hardly remember the child that was Blair Bolton. She was a couple years his junior but his one near encounter with her left him with only vague memories of a lanky child whose eyes haunted him. There was no telling how time might have changed her, or him for that matter.

Jon continued to encourage him, to remind him that she too was most likely fretting over what her future husband would look like. It had put things in perspective for Robb, to know that she too might be worried. He didn't complain again as they made their way into the courtyard where he would wait beside his father for the woman who was to be his wife.

* * *

"Where is he?" Catelyn hissed, looking over her shoulder. "I told him not to be late."

Ned shrugged. "Perhaps he's in the Godswood. He's not late yet."

"The Bolton party will be here in a matter of minutes. He should be here when she arrives."

"I'm sure he will be." He glanced down at her hands, which she was wringing nervously, and rested a hand on her arm. "I have complete faith that Robb will be here. He doesn't break promises easily."

Catelyn sighed. "I'm not worried about that. It's just- I'm concerned Lady Bolton might not be a good match."

"Why is that?" Ned asked, frowning.

"She is a Bolton, after all. I'm not sure it's such a good idea, having her marry into a line her family has hated for thousands of years."

"She's the best choice of anyone north of the Neck. She's used to the North, she follows the Old Gods, and Lord Bolton is one of my most powerful bannermen. Robb needs to have the loyalty of his men above all else, and what better way than through the marriage of two households."

"There have been whispers that she is not right. That she takes after the Boltons of old, and takes pleasure from torture," Catelyn said, her eyebrows creased.

Ned chuckled softly, shaking his head. "There are always whispers. I've met her before, you'll be happy to know, and she seemed just as normal as Arya or Sansa."

"And how long ago, husband, was this?"

"Does it matter?" he asked, and sighed when the look on Catelyn's face gave him the answer. "Quite a few years ago. Maybe thirteen years. She was young, just a little girl then."

"And she could have very well changed since then. There's something about the Dreadfort, an air of evil around it. Nothing good comes from that godsforsaken black castle."

"The marriage won't take place for another week or so. The rest of the bannermen still need to arrive. We can speak to her before the wedding, and see if she is not right as you said."

"And if we find that there is something wrong wit her?"

Ned frowned. "I don't see any point in worrying about it. In all likelihood, it's just gossip."

"They said the reports of the Mad King's insanity was gossip as well," she reminded him. "What if she is just as mad? I don't want any of my grandchildren to be nursed by such a woman. Who knows when it would have set in."

"And if that is the case, I suppose we will call off the wedding. I very much doubt, however, that we will need to." He cocked his head at the sound of footsteps to see Robb, half walking and half jogging, to stand beside them. He was out of breath when he joined them, Ned noticed. He would have rushed in order to get down to the courtyard, no doubt to avoid his mother's glare. Greywind padded along just behind him, never more than an arm's reach away.

Catelyn frowned. "I told you to leave that dog with the kennel master."

Robb too frowned, and Ned was struck with just how much he looked like his mother. "Grey Wind is not just a dog, mother. Besides even if I had left him with Farlen, he'd have only escaped in a matter of minutes. He hates when I leave him in there."

"You'll scare your wife away. Nothing will send a worse message than if you let your direwolf jump at them before they are more than three steps from the carriage."

"I won't let him," Robb snapped back, resting his hand on the scruff of Grey Wind's neck, as if to hold him back.

A horn sounded, just outside the gate. "They'll be here momentarily," Ned observed, straightening his back and adjusting his doublet. The gates swung open, and the Bolton party began to enter Winterfell.

The carriage that rode in wasn't very fine, nor were the horses pulling it. There were only a handful of soldiers on either side of it, sitting atop their horses with their mouths in straight lines. Not one of them was Lord Bolton and his bastard was nowhere in sight. Ned frowned then, realizing that Blair Bolton was alone, not even given the courtesy of her father's pretence. Instead of sending his daughter into what would soon be her new home, she was meant to face these strangers alone.

But Ned wasn't entirely surprised. Catelyn was right. These were Boltons.

"Lord Stark," the soldier in front said, and Ned could have sworn he heard the foul taste the name left on the man's tongue, the way he almost spat out his formalities. The man pulled off his helmet and tucked it under his arm, revealing a shining bald head. "Lord Bolton sends his apologies that neither he nor his son could attend the wedding."

"And who are you?" Ned asked.

Anger flashed in the man's eyes, but he blinked once and it was gone. "I am the captain of the guard at the Dreadfort. My name is not important. I was tasked to bring Lord Bolton's daughter here safely."

At the mention of Lord Bolton's daughter, the carriage door opened, and a girl not much younger than Robb stepped out, mumbling curses under her breath. It took him a moment to realize he was staring at Blair Bolton. She was far from the child she had once seen, bouncing dark curls and a hidden smile in the corner of her pink mouth. Whatever joy he had seen in her features years prior was now gone, replaced by the coldness that mirrored her father.

"Lady Bolton," Ned said, a little stiffer than he meant to sound. "Welcome to Winterfell."

She didn't respond immediately, but the frown dropped from her face and was replaced with a blank expression. She nodded, as if to acknowledge she heard him.

"Thank you for your hospitality," she replied, her voice soft and her courtesy forced. "It's a wonderful castle."

"It has been many years since we last met," Ned told her, a hint of kindness in his voice as he stepped towards her. "But, perhaps you do not remember. You were only a girl then."

"I am sorry, My Lord, but no," she admitted, her eyes diverting from his and looking down at her hands that were folded neatly in front of her.

The discomfort was clear in the girl's expression, her unease only increasing by the moment as they all stood there in silence. Only the sound of the guard's impatient tapping against his helmet could be heard, prolonging the awkwardness.

"Come, child," he summoned, reaching his hand out to her but she did not take it, only stared at it for a long moment before crossing the space between them to stand at his side. "Meet Lady Catelyn, my wife."

Ned could see Catelyn's forced smile, almost mirroring the one of the girl before her. Both women stared at one another, the younger of the two dropping her stance slightly as she gave her best courtsey. Ned caught his wife's eye, doing his best to tell her through his strained expression to be polite.

"Blair," was Catelyn's quick acknowledgement, coming across almost the opposite of the kindness Ned had been hoping for.

"Lady Stark," the girl replied, rising back to her former statuesque stance as Ned ushered her passed his wife and on towards Robb, who stood in equal stiffness once she was presented before him.

Blair's eyes only lingered on her future husband for a moment before she glanced down at his side where Grey Wind sat staring up at her with cautious eyes. Initially, Ned saw the surprise in her eyes as she looked over the animal carefully. He was still small, for the great beast that he was, but his stance was often frightening to those not used to such an animal.

She flashed a brief, empty smile at the direwolf, and reached down, cautiously, to pat his head. Grey Wind watched her hand get closer, until he leaped up and snapped at her hand, Blair pulling it away just moments before his jaws closed.

"Grey Wind!" Robb cried, pulling the wolf back and looking up apologetically at her. "I'm so sorry. I have never seen him behave this way."

Grey Wind snarled and tried to leap at her again, Robb barely managing to hold onto him. "What did I tell you about that damn wolf?" his mother hissed. "Take it to the kennels," she ordered Theon, pointing towards the keep.

Theon tried to take Grey Wind, but the wolf squirmed away. "I should help," Robb called over the sound of barking. "He won't go with you otherwise." The two of them dragged Grey Wind through the courtyard, until at last they were out of sight and the barking had silenced.

Ned turned around to Blair, who had inched her way behind him throughout the ordeal, and was now leaned to the side, making sure Grey Wind was gone. She straightened and adjusted her dress. The momentary lapse in her frigid behavior had passed. She was once again as quiet and contemplative as she had been since exiting the carriage.

It was as she fixed the long plait of hair over her shoulder that he realized what a fine young woman she was. She was of average height and of average stature. Her fair skin contrasted with her dark brown hair which she fiddled with momentarily, tightening the satin ribbon at the bottom to keep it all in place.

But most prominent of all her features, were her eyes. It wasn't the shape of them nor was it the long dark lashes that she looked out from. But rather it was the haunting pale color that set them apart. Ned was sure he'd never seen such eyes, the ghostly color was white like a fresh pail of milk. Roose's eyes had been light, as he recalled, though he always made a point of redirecting his eyes from the man if he ever got the chance. And it seemed as though this child had inherited those eyes, those terrifyingly bright eyes that seemed so far from natural.

It was the same pair of eyes that was now focused on them intently, as if she was appraising each of them one by one as she stood before them. But in fact, Blair was not sure what to think of her first encounter with the Starks.

To her, they had all seemed strange looking at her with wide eyes and stiff statures, as if it were she who was the strange one. She'd found something odd about each one of them, her future husband in particular who looked at her with an expression she had never before noticed in the eyes of any boy or man, watching her with an almost irritating persistence. He kept his eyes on her, until he had to tear them away to drag his thrice damned mutt to the kennels, all the while that peculiar expression on his face.

The mother was the most uncomfortable and yet the most familiar. Everything about the stern look on her brow said that she didn't trust Blair. It was a look she knew well growing up in a household where trust was a foreign concept. Since she was a child, her father had made her to believe that having a suspicious nature was necessary. In that aspect, at least, he had been right.

She looked over the younger Starks, appraising them in her mind as she did so. After Robb was Sansa, the girl with the auburn hair and the eyes so full of water. She was beautiful. Blair had always admired beautiful things, even when they were people. A man once told her that she would have been beautiful if it weren't for her eyes. But beautiful people weren't meant to be trusted either, she remembered, and so she noted that she would eye Sansa more carefully than her younger sister who seemed to lack the common qualities of most high-born girls. it was too soon to tell if the girl would be beautiful, but Blair had a feeling the girl would always be plain.

Behind the family was a boy with a downcast expression, Stark grey eyes like his father. He must be the bastard, she thought. She had heard about Jon Snow many times from Ramsay who often told her that all bastards were like him, with dark hearts and tainted souls. She decided she would be wary of him as well, at least until Ramsay's words were proven to be false.

Bran and Rickon stood side by side, with the younger Stark clutching his older brother's hand. She didn't know much about children, except that once, many years ago, she had been one, a troubling thought she tried to banish from her mind. They looked harmless enough, she decided, with their disheveled hair and mischievous eyes. The smaller of the two stumbled forward and reached out to her, taking her hand in his and bowed slightly.

"My Lady," he said, his small voice barely audible.

She was not sure what to make of the interaction nor how she ought to respond. She glanced up at Ned Stark who wore a proud grin in the corner of his mouth. Control your child, she wanted to hiss, but managed a lifeless smile instead. It must not have been a very convincing one, she realized as Lord Stark cleared his throat uncomfortably and dropped his gaze, along with his smile.

"Rickon, please let go of Lady Bolton," he interjected. Blair couldn't help but feel slightly relieved when he finally released her from his grasp, though she could have done without the crushing grip he kept on her hand as he stood beside her, as though he was afraid she might run away.

"Thank you," she all but whispered, and resisted the urge to shake the child loose from her arm.

"Do you mind escorting us to our chambers," the captain of the guard butted in, a smirk still on his face from watching her react to the direwolf. "We've travelled a long way, and my men are very tired."

Lord Stark's eyes narrowed at the man. "Very well. You and your men may stay in the barracks." He turned around, facing the darkened walls of the keep. "Theon," he called out. A young man stepped out of the shadows, a bow slung over his shoulder and a quiver on his back. "Please escort these men to their quarters."

The man named Theon - more of a boy, really, he was only a little older than Blair was - nodded and motioned for the Bolton men to follow him. Blair took a step forward to accompany him as well when Lord Stark turned around, facing her again. "Sansa will show you to your chambers," he explained.

"Of course," Blair responded, putting on a fake smile. Finally, finally, the youngest Stark let go of her hand, allowing her to flex it to get blood back into her fingers.

Blair followed the young girl with the auburn hair, through the courtyard where she avoided several stares from onlookers keen to see Robb Stark's future bride. Sansa was quiet as they passed through the archway and into the keep, where they met a series of stairways that would lead them to her rooms. She thought, for a brief moment, about starting a conversation but could not think of anything she would say to a girl like Sansa. She didn't have much experience talking to other girls.

But it was Sansa who spoke instead, breaking the silence between them.

"We are all very excited to have you here," Sansa said and Blair nearly smiled at the girl's silly attempts at small talk, her crossed arms showing clearly how little she wanted to be talking to any Bolton. It was awkward to say the least and Blair did not have a sufficient response that would soothe either Sansa's discomfort or her own so she opted to remain silent.

Just as her father had taught her.

Once she came to her chambers, she watched Sansa bow her head politely and walk back in the direction they had come from. Blair closed the door behind her as she stared at the room. She was alone. And for the first time since she'd left her previous home, she felt as though she could breathe, at least for a few moments.

Her father's men were still inside these walls somewhere and until they left, she would not be able to shake the feeling that her every move was being watched. Perhaps this place wasn't like the Dreadfort but she was a Bolton, and the distrustful eyes of the Starks could be equally as unnerving as the disappointed glances of her father. Her only hope was that Winterfell was far enough that she could escape Ramsay's gaze, and all his malicious schemes.


End file.
